Cannwyl corph is Welsh for corpse candle, which follows the path of a funeral.
An eerie ball of light, it marks where the dead one went.
Wherever cannwyl corph stops, that is where the corpse is buried.

I
have beena
tear in the air,the
dullest of stars,a
word among letters,a
book in the origin,the
light of a lantern,a
continuing bridge,Over threescore
Abers.

I
have beena
wolf,an
eagle,a
coracle in the seas,a
guest at the banquet,a
drop in the shower.I
have beena
sword in the grasp of the handa
shield in battlea
string in the harp,Disguised...

--From The
Book of Taliesin, VIII

Leaping
from the mantle, Eclipse of the magnificent whiskers and gentle paws
landed on the broad windowsill and pressed her nose against the
rain-streaked glass in time to see her master sidestep the ancient
oak whose roots had all but ruined the cement walkway leading from
the house. Slapping away a branch and shivering against the drops
pelting down his neck, Methos pulled closer the collar of his
trenchcoat and disappeared into the fog-filled Parisian night.

Oh,
Great Bast, protectress of cats and those who love them... Turning
twice on the tips of her toes, the black cat wound the prayer upward
to the ancient Egyptian goddess as she wound her tail about her feet.

Peaceful
guardian of the immortal realm of the gods, hear me. The one called
Alexa is dead, and Methos’ heart hurts. He will not talk to
me, and I cannot hear his thoughts. Can you? Can you guide him
through yet another night of the soul, as you have countless times
before? 250 lives, we have been together, since Alexandria burned,
yet he will not hear me. I can lie beside him, can demand that he
touch me, yet I cannot touch him.

Goddess, go where I cannot. Walk
with him in the shadows of this city. Keep him safe from men and
murderers, sharp swords and terror. Let him find petting and gentle
touches. Bring him home at the end of this dark night. I will wait
for him as I have always waited for him.

* * *

Slouched
on Duncan’s couch, Methos stared out the portside window of the
barge. “Alexa should have died in my arms, on a hill filled
with lavender in Genoa. Instead, they hooked her up to that
abominable machine, all dignity was lost, she couldn’t even talk in the end!” Choking, he viciously backhanded the tears away,
as though to swipe away his pain as well.

“You
don’t have to talk about it if you--”

“I want to
talk about it!” He all but shouted. “Why does everyone
want to ‘spare’ me by making me keep silent? I want
someone besides me to know how beautiful Alexa was when she laughed.
How eager she was to touch everything, see everything. Alexa lived the time she had left. She gathered every image, every memory close
and held it like a child holds her first kitten--gently and
wondrously and never letting go, until you pry their little fingers
away to make them rest. Just as death pried her away.”

Turning
the mug of hot tea between his hands, Methos spoke through clenched
teeth. “Did you know she was terrified of hospitals?”

“Someone’s
dying, and she’s tortured in the name of prolonging her life.
Cruel, isn’t it?” He paused to sip his tea, then stared
at it as though he hadn’t noticed it before. “‘Hospitals
scare me more than does the pain,’ she said.” So we
stayed out of them as long as we could. We ran away from the
doctors, the injections, the pills, the cold white walls, the fears
and the dying. We shared every moment we could together, with no
white-coated inquisitioners telling us when we could speak and when
we were permitted to touch.” Methos spat out the words. “She had a better
life than that. She deserved a better death.”

“I’m
sorry that she didn’t get one,” murmured Duncan.

“Me,
too.” Grief did nothing to soften Methos’ features.
“She wanted to die in that field full of lavender, but it was
impossible at the last, when she needed that machine and its tubes to
breathe for her.” He swallowed hard. “On her last good
day, we were together in that field. The air was sweet, and she
could smell it. Before they stuck her on the respirator, her last
words to me were, ‘Don’t forget to listen to the children
laughing.”

“Children?”

“We
were picnicking in the lavender, and a group of children were picking
grapes in the vineyard across the road. They ate more than they
picked. Alexa couldn’t eat solid food anymore, so we were
enjoying food for the soul: sunshine and a warm breeze and many,
many hugs. Eclipse was with us, lying companionably close or
stalking butterflies. Alexa and I talked about cats having nine
lives and about reincarnation, if I believed she could come back.”

Methos
broke off abruptly, and Duncan remained silent, knowing that there
was no place for conversation yet. He could only offer the comfort
of a friend simply by being there. Methos let the silence rest
between them for several minutes. Finally, he raised tortured eyes.

“Alexa
was the first in over a hundred years, you know. The first, since
the age of crinoline and corsets, to let me share her life. She
loved me. Cared about me. No, not even me--about
silly Adam Pierson! And we had to try to live lifetimes in two-hundred forty-three days. Two-hundred forty-three sunrises.
Two-hundred forty-two sunsets. I could have spent five thousand years with her. There was so much I
wanted to show her, so much I wanted to do with her, for her, and
there just wasn’t enough time! It was impossible. I failed to give
her so much I wanted to. What I still want to.”

Tears
were very close now, and the Immortal’s voice was trembling.
He moved then, rising quickly to stride across the room and set the
mug in the kitchen sink. Duncan knew the motion for what it was: the
movement of someone who must move,
must do something to distract himself from the pain.

Sighing
deeply, Methos drew a great, shuddering breath. “Do you have
any idea how difficult it is to share everything with someone in
two-hundred and forty-three--no, in two-hundred forty-two and a half
days?” he asked softly, his voice brittle.

Duncan’s
own smile was tight and sad. “I have a pretty good idea.”

Methos
looked up. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he murmured. His
gaze flickered to her photograph, framed on the bulkhead wall behind
Duncan. Some scars never heal, Methos reflected. I knew that when I
went into things with Alexa. Then, I believed that I could withstand
losing her because leaving her behind, leaving her to herself, would
have been unthinkable. Eight months or eight days... It didn’t
seem to matter then--at least we would have some time. Any time. I
knew what the end would be. But our time together wasn’t
enough. I don’t think eternity would have been enough, but
those few days... they were just a taste instead of a banquet.

Oh,
Alexa, I miss you. I’m not the kind of fellow most women look
at and want to share with, or want to run about the world with.
Looking at me and looking at Duncan, I know where a lady’s eyes
go. I’ve had no illusions about that for the past three
thousand years. You, dear Alexa, were someone truly special.
Someone I will never forget.

He
offered a crooked smile. “Thanks for listening, MacLeod. I
should be going, now that I’ve bent and broken your ear with my
mourning.”

“I
don’t mind listening. You’ve helped me out more times
than either of us care to remember.” Crossing the distance
between them, the Highlander gathered his friend into a tight hug.
“I understand what you’re going through, and how much
Alexa’s dying has hurt you. If you need me, I’m here.
No matter when, no matter why. You got that?”

“Sure.
No problem.” Gathering his raincoat from the couch, Methos
headed up the stairs, toward the door. “I’m going to be
away for a few days, getting my head together. There’s a place
in Wales, a place I haven’t been to in a long time. Not
since...” Shrugging into the damp trenchcoat, he seemed to
forget what he had been saying.

“Will
you be back?”

“Of
course. Sooner or later, we all come round again,” he said
with a wan smile before bending to the task of buttoning the
trenchcoat. When that was done, he looked down at Duncan, who waited
patiently on the lower level. “Do you know what I’ll
always remember first, whenever I think of Alexa?”

“What?”

“That
I was beautiful, too... in her eyes. I’ve never been that...
to anyone else.”

Slipping
out the door, Methos was gone before Duncan could offer to hug him
again.

* * *

The
train took two hours get from Shrewsbury--on the border of Wales and
England--to Borth, where the journey ended. Eclipse complained
bitterly the entire time, muttering beneath her breath, furious at
having to stay in her carrier far longer than she thought necessary.

First
it was an airplane, then Heathrow Airport, and then Victoria Station, said the low growls. Nasty places,
loud and smelly places, with screeching machines and silly children
sticking their grubby fingers in here and shrill old ladies cooing at
me through the slats. And do you hurry? No. You take your time,
strolling around, bouncing me about like so much luggage.

Drag
me all over London, will you? I hate airports and trains, and you
know it. You told me we were going back to Wales. You didn’t
tell me it would take this damn long, or be this damned
uncomfortable!

“Sorry,”
Methos muttered into his paper, hoping the two students sitting
opposite him on the train wouldn’t notice.

Perhaps
they don’t speak English, the
Immortal reflected, noting that the heartfelt conversation they were
having--discussing their boyfriends’ shortcomings--was in
Welsh. Perhaps they’ll think
that I’m talking to the stock numbers, rather than to the witch
under my seat.

I
heard that! she shrieked. Scratch
you for it, I could. I will. I won’t forget, you know!

She
hadn’t scratched him in over 400 years, but that was no
guarantee. More contrary than Amanda
is Eclipse, Methos knew. Turning
the page of his newspaper, he tried very hard to shut out the steady
vocal and mental rumble of the cat’s grousing.

Flat,
green farmland rolled by in the late afternoon, only to give way to
rugged mountains--the Welsh Marches, said any British atlas, but the
locals called them hills. The locals had a tremendous gift for
understatement. Immensely ancient and wild were these mountains,
with dead and unchanging, rust-colored bracken lining the sides of
the valley traversed by the train. Even if Methos hadn’t known
Cardiganshire and the history of the land, he’d have known
there was one.

From
Shrewsbury to Aberystwyth to Machynlleth... The train paused at each
little village with its collection of low, grey stone houses and
narrow streets. So different from
the rough, thatched huts I remember. But that was a few years ago.

Sixteen
centuries ago, when the king and Taliesin were alive, the
cat reminded him acidly. Time
passes, you know, even if you aren’t watching.

His
eye wandered to the college texts stacked haphazardly beside the
students. Mabinogion, read one.

Methos
smiled. Ah, and so you’re
learning the tales of King Math, who could know whatever anyone was
thinking, if he chose. And his nephew Gwydion, who stole the pigs of
Prince Pryderi of Dyfyd by conjuring, and made a woman of flowers for
the son of his sister, Arianrhod. And let us not forget the head of
the Immortal warrior Bran, which lived for eighty days after it was
separated from his body. Nice trick, especially for Immortals, he
smiled to himself. Nor can we
overlook the beloved tales of King Arthur and his bard-magician,
Taliesin. But those stories were made up much later.

I
was there, he silently told the two
giggling students. Silly children,
I lived your stories before Welsh became a written language, back
when it was only spoken and sung. You have only fragments, there in Mabinogion, in The Black Book of Caernarvon, and in The Red Book of Hergest... but I have
memories of all the songs, the kings and the women, the banquets and
the greatest bards before stories were made of their songs. I heard
all the singers... Llywarch and Hen, Aneirin and Taliesin. I ate
their horrid food, froze in their drafty stone castles, and listened
to the music of the gods. And you listen to what--Nine
Inch Nails? Dead Can Dance? God,
how the mighty have been forgotten.

Sixteen
centuries have passed, he reflected, yet when I come back here, it seems
like only yesterday.

Getting
off the train at Borth, Methos was hit by the wind--strong and
enthusiastic and cold.

“God.”
He shuddered, clutching at the collar of his coat, where the wind was
making investigative forays. “I never remember exactly how
cold this place is.”

Shielding
Eclipse a best he could from the blast, Methos hunched his shoulders
against the empty miles of grey sea behind him--lit only by the
fast-setting sun over his shoulder--and left the train station to
head down the hill, toward the warmth of the Red Goat Pub.

“You’ll
be Adam Pierson, then?” said the plump, dark-eyed barmaid the
moment he crossed her threshold. Shunting dirty beer mugs across the
polished wooden bar, she grinned at the shivering stranger who stood
clutching a small traveling case in one hand and a cat carrier in the
other.

“How
did you guess?” He answered her in Welsh, remembering at the
last minute to update his accent and his grammar.

“Don’t
get many cats in here,” she answered in the same language.
“Want a pint and a saucer of milk to warm the two of you?”

“I’d
rather have a pot of tea, if you don’t mind? She’d like the pint.”

“The
cat wants a pint?” Hands on hips, the woman narrowed her eyes,
finding little humor in this stranger’s games.

Adam
recanted his request after a moment’s thought. “No,
never mind the pint. We’ll both have tea, thanks.”

The
look of disbelief from the hostess was met with Methos’ usual
calm expectancy, and the woman scuffled off, muttering to himself.

Sidling
over to the table nearest the fire, Methos shed his coat and opened
the carrier. Mrphing
her reprimand (the actual, snarling lecture would wait until they
were alone), Eclipse stalked out and onto her companion’s lap.
Sitting primly, she washed her rumpled fur until the tea came.
Glowering at the pot with its single cup and saucer, she lifted
narrowed yellow eyes and hissed at the barmaid.

“Um...
could I have another cup, please? Eclipse hates drinking out of a
saucer.”

“Does
she now?” Incredulous, the woman fetched another cup and
plunked it down beside the cat.

Crouching,
Eclipse lashed her tail as Methos took far too much time pouring the
tea and adding the required amount of cream.

Paws
are so inconvenient sometimes, aren’t they? Methos
thought wickedly, renewing an old argument they had regarding the
abilities of claws versus human hands.

Stepping
forward delicately, Eclipse rested one paw on the table even as she
gouged the claws of her other three appendages into Methos’
thigh. Drawing a sharp breath, he disengaged the cat as she lapped
delicately, innocently, at the tea.

The
barmaid laughed. “Well, then. Just when I’d thought I’d
seen everything. Will you be staying the night, or wanting your car
right off?”

“Is
it ready now?”

“Around
the back.”

“Then
I’ll be off momentarily.” Three
things the twentieth century has over the fourth century, he reflected, eyes following as the woman retrieved the Hertz
agreement he’d arranged. Fax
machines, credit cards, and car rentals. It makes getting to
Nany-Y-Moch a lot easier. In a
matter of minutes, the car was Adam Pierson’s for the next few
days.

“Do
you mind if I leave the cat carrier with you?” he asked,
shrugging into his coat and accommodating Eclipse as she leaped onto
his shoulder. “I won’t be needing it while I’m
here.”

“No
problem. It’ll be hidden away in the closet. Just remind me
when you return the car.” She handed over the keys.

*

Wind
gently rocked the car windows. Eclipse stalked the little car’s
length and breadth while Methos familiarized himself with its
workings. Nothing unusual... standard shift (and
where are the lights?), but British
clutches could be testy, and so he straightened out relations with
this one before easing out from behind the pub and onto the narrow,
cobbled street. Traffic was non-existent this night, since all five
hundred inhabitants of Borth were probably inside having their
supper.

Scents
duly investigated, Eclipse settled on the seat beside Methos and
tucked in her paws. Leaving the lights of Borth behind, the Immortal
took the lane to the right which led to and through Dolybont village,
then over the hill to Talybont. The moon was rising, flooding the
green with cold, silver light. The mini sprang ahead, obeying
Methos’ commands perfectly, carrying him right up the way to
Nant-y-moch. No lights beckoned him on: the way he was taking led
only to miles and miles of black hills.

The
country looked wild and lonely under the moon, making Methos remember
the passage of years, and the deaths of his friends in battle on
these fields. He entered his memories as he entered this
land--unprotected and defenseless against the sadness in his heart.
He missed many of the short-tempered, arrogant, stocky Welshmen he’d
known in fourth century Cardigan as much as he missed Alexa.

Perhaps
coming here wasn’t such a wonderful idea, he mused. But is there anywhere I
could go to escape the memories? So many years, so many memories.
I’ve been from one end of this earth to the other, and so
unless the space shuttle begins ferrying passengers to Mars, or some
extraterrestrial airline begins service between here and Alpha
Centuri, I think I’m stuck.

Reminders
are there, no matter where I go--layers upon layers of them, wrapped
‘round with life and love and loss. Nothing to do about that,
but close my eyes and remember it all, tip my hat and say another
farewell to the friends I knew... and then go on, into the future and
whatever other losses it may hold. Days come, days go; they take
friends and empires with them. We Immortals just go with the flow,
as the Yanks say.

Methos
knew he was trespassing--against the sorrows in his heart as well as
against the land. Not even Immortals belonged back here, in the
wilds of Cardiganshire.

I
could be swallowed by these hills, he reflected, could simply disappear
without a trace and no one—not even Duncan--would ever know
what had happened. And who would miss me? The Watchers? Not
likely. The Methos Project would be reassigned. And Duncan? He’d
miss me for awhile, perhaps. After all, who else is going to annoy
him quite as much as I do? But--optimistic boy scout that he
is--he’d probably just believe that he’d meet up with me
again, sometime in the future. No need to worry about old Methos.
Immortals move in and out of one another’s orbit all of the
time, throughout the decades. And trust the gossipmongers to report
if my head’s gone wandering. After all, what else really
matters to an Immortal?

About
two thirds of the way to Nant-Y-Moch, the road took a sharp bend to
the right. Looking out over the valley, Methos saw Nant-Y-Moch
reservoir and its resident lake in moon-dappled glory. Not a light
showed anywhere; there were absolutely no signs of men. He braked at
the top of the hill for a better look.

“There
it is, Eclipse,” he murmured, lifting the cat in his arms so
that she could see the view. “Caer Taliesin... Merlyn the
magician’s final resting place--buried underwater thanks to
twentieth century progress. How do you feel about camping out in
honor of the old fellow?”

A
surprised yowl was his answer. Camping!? The cat sounded outraged, as Methos had known she would. But
you’ve brought no tent, no sardines, not even a match. Methos,
how could you--

“I
don’t need any of that stuff and neither do you. We know how
to get along without all the trappings of civilization. Catching and
eating the odd mouse for a few days won’t hurt you. You’re
getting soft and pudgy, anyway. It’ll be fun, like the old
days with the knights,” he coaxed. “The moon’s
even up. You’re old friends; she’ll help you hunt. What
do you say?”

Looking
away, Eclipse tucked her tail in tight. Take
me back to the pub.

He
laughed and let the car roll forward. The moon disappeared for a
moment, hidden behind a cloud edged in silver. The earthen road
went black except for the mini’s totally inadequate headlights,
and Methos peered into the darkness. He was glad when the cloud
passed and the moon returned to keep him company, helped light the
way. But something was still wrong. The new view ahead made Methos
swerve the little car dangerously.

“What
the hell?”

Springing
up, Eclipse peered over the dashboard. There was no lake and no
reservoir. Where the moon should have reflected on a long sheet of
water, it shone instead on a deep, wooded valley that twisted between
the hills.

“My
God,” Methos said softly, exchanging glances with the cat.

Now
what? she demanded. Is
that real? If it’s not, we’ll drown.

“There’s
one way to find out.” He straightened the wheel.

“We
follow the road.”

You’re
mad, Eclipse commented almost
conversationally before leaping onto his shoulder and leaning,
trembling, against the side of his
head. Her fur was warm against his ear.

Instead
of skirting the edge of Nant-Y-Moch, the road ran down into the
valley, through the trees. Stopping the car where the road narrowed,
Methos exited with Eclipse still on his shoulder. I’m
not getting down, she announced,
digging her claws in slightly.

Methos
cautiously approached the place where the water should have begun.
Digging a toe into the dirt, he found that it was hard-packed and
very old. No tire tracks stained it, no modern machinery had gouged
drainage wounds or ditches at its verge.

“Nothing
will hurt you here,” he reassured the cat. “This is one
of the ancient, sacred Ways. I remember it now. I just never
thought to see it again.”

Think
whatever you want, she said, but
I’m not touching the ground.

A
light moving off to the right distracted them. Moving first out in
the open, well beyond the car, it floated into the forest and was
lost in a hollow before coming up over a rise.

It
moves like a lantern carried by a man, said Eclipse, growling low in her throat as no man was visible, not
even to her night-visioned, feline eyes.

It
did move like a lantern, not in a straight line, but following a path
through the woods. But it was far brighter than any lantern. And it
glowed blue.

Reaching
the road just ahead of where Methos stood with Eclipse, the light
paused as though regarding them momentarily. The wind shifted behind
the two, blowing up the mountain, and on it came a low, rhythmic
sound that raised the hairs on the back of Methos’ neck. A
mourning, aching moan, it carried words and tears in Old Welsh that
the Immortal had not heard for fifteen hundred years.

That’s
no lantern light.

Knowing
the cannwyl corph for what it was, Methos stepped without fear onto the ancient road
and followed it. “We walked here long ago,” he
whispered. “We followed this ancient Way, lamenting the death
of one of the knights, someone very precious to us. You weren’t
with me. You stayed behind, at Caerleon with the King.”

We? Eclipse asked.

“The
bards, Sagramore and the other knights. Don’t you remember?”

I
remember your sadness, your grief, your quest. That was before the
quest for the Grail?

Methos
nodded, never taking his eyes off the light.

Does
tonight begin another quest?

“I
don’t know, Eclipse. I came here to be alone, to try to heal
from losing Alexa. That’s all. I wasn’t expecting
this.”

The
cat spared him a look through narrowed eyes.

“It’s
not as though I planned this, you know,”Methos protested.

The
light led him deep into the valley, through the woods to a small
stone cottage set on the other side of a stream. Crossing a wooden
foot bridge, he went to the door and knocked, only to have it fall
back--almost as though he was expected. Stooping slightly, he crossed
the threshold and blinked slightly as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Leaping
from his shoulder, Eclipse wandered about the cottage, sniffing here,
exploring there. There wasn’t much to see. An ancient-looking
Caledonian harp stood in the corner, strung with brass wires that
looked shiny from constant use. Plucking a few strings at random
with his fingernails, Methos made them ring true. Cedar logs were
piled by the hearth. A bowl of apples sat on a bare wood table,
beside an empty wooden mug with a broken handle. Kneeling by the
hearth, which was strewn with sweet rushes, he impulsively put
another log on the fire. It was a long time until morning, until the
weak Welsh sun warmed the cold spring air--if, indeed, they could
still consider themselves in Wales.

Whatever
else has changed, Methos reflected, the outside temperature hasn’t.
Maybe whoever owns this cottage will appreciate a little warmth when
they return. Sinking cross-legged
before the hearth, he scratched Eclipse’s chin when she
wandered by.

“What
do you think of this place?”

Her
purr rumbled forth, pleased and unexpected. Warmth
and comfort. Familiar smells of a friend. Here is home.

“That’s
how I feel, too. Shall we wait for our friend to come back? It
might be quite awhile, you know?”

By
way of an answer, Eclipse curled up against Methos, closed her eyes
and purred. Shifting around, Methos snagged a rolled-up fur from
against the wall. Unrolling it, he lay down on it, gathered close
his cat, and fell into the first deep sleep he’d had in weeks.

Chapter
Two

I have been teacher to all manner
of men,I am able to instruct all the
Universe.I shall be until the Day of Doom
upon the face of the earth;And it is not known whether I am
man, beast, or fish.

--from
The Mabinogian, Taliesin

Pushing
open the cottage door, the Immortal swept back his cloak and stepped
quietly to the side of the intruder lying before his fire. Bending
slightly, he peered at what the flickering light of the fire revealed
of his visitor’s face.

Eclipse
lifted her head to calmly regard the man towering over her and
Methos. Piercing blue eyes in a sharp face met hers. Beyond them
was a mass of black hair, broken only by a streak of Celtic-silver
hair running from widow’s peak, down the center and to the end
of the man’s waist-length mane.

Taliesin. She purred the name at him. My
magician, singer, teacher, friend.

"So
you’ve come home again,” he said, in a voice rich with
amusement. “I have fish for our dinner.”

Eclipse
purred harder and closed her eyes in approval.

“I
would ask you to answer only one question if you wish to share it
with me.”

She
cracked open an eye.

“Why
has your old knight come to this place between the worlds?”

She
stopped purring. To mourn the loss
of someone he loved.

Nodding
understanding, Taliesin retrieved another fur--companion to the one
Methos had taken earlier. Shaking it out, he spread it lovingly over
his guest, taking care not to smother the cat before asking, “And
why are you here with him, Egyptian lady?”

I
love him. Lowering her head,
Eclipse went back to sleep.

*

Methos
awoke the next morning to the Buzz roaring urgently in his head, and
to the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. On his
feet with sword in hand before his body had even registered that it
was daylight, and he remembered that he happened to be trespassing in
someone’s cottage, Methos had the sword’s tip at his
host’s throat before the Immortal could draw another breath.

The
man smiled where he sat at his table, waiting for his guest to awake.
“Welcome, Galahad. How goes immortality with you? Still
searching for the odd grail or two?”

Arms
shaking with adrenaline-induced confusion as his body said fight and
his brain commanded him to wait, Methos stared.

“Taliesin?”
he croaked, only to clear his throat to remove the dryness of a night
spent sleeping on the floor. Before him sat the most powerful
Immortal he had ever met--sixteen centuries ago. Nature
is my mother, wisdom is my father, Methos remembered the words of the magician, whose talents included
prophecy and miracle-working through secret doctrines, symbolic
serpents and dragons--all of which he’d tried to teach Methos
before a young boy named Wart had happened upon the scene. Losing
patience with Methos, Taliesin had turned to kingmaking.

“It’s
me,” said the magician. “Unless you decide, after two
thousand years, to make me the late Taliesin.”

Arching
an eyebrow and cocking his head, he ordered the sword to redirect
itself. The metal obeyed, twisting slightly in Methos’ hands.

“But
before I die,” Taliesin continued, “will you show me what
strange new costume are you wearing this time? Every time I see you,
it’s something different. Stand up and let me see what
outlandish garb you wear tonight.” He grinned, his eyes
crinkling at the corners. “It’s always been good for a
song or two.”

Methos
set aside the sword. “Every time you see me, another hundred
years or so has passed. Fashions change. You know that.”

“Mmm.
They don’t seem to be getting any better. Silliness, if you
ask me. It was leather tunic and leggings, when first we met.”
Taking an apple from its bowl on the table beside him, Taliesin
offered one to Methos, who shook his head. “Now tunics and
leggings are sound and fairly practical. Thigh boots and feathers
came next, as I recall. The boots at least kept the thorns from your
thighs, but what were the feathers to do for you?” He snorted.
“They would have looked far better left on the bird.”

Methos
smiled in embarrassment. “It was the costume of the day. It
was what was worn at court.”

“Next,
you showed up in something you called a Victorian morning suit,
wasn’t it? And now...” He squinted at the Levi’s
and Irish wool fisherman’s sweater. “You’ve grown
more sensible in your old age. At least those will keep you warm,
and not attract predators.”

“Glad
you approve. When last I saw you on that cliff outside Caerleon, you
were wearing your finest black robes and had summoned a magnificent
thunderstorm with lots of crackling lightning and rolling thunder.
Stalking back to your cave, you shouted that you were so angry with
me that you were sealing the door for another four hundred years.
What happened?”

“What
do you think happened? I got bored. Nothing to do in the dark, and
I can only stay cross with you and a changing world for so long.
Just because I don’t want to play the Game doesn’t mean I
don’t want to live. Come here.”

Rising
from his chair, Taliesin wrapped Methos in a bear hug, which was
enthusiastically returned, with Eclipse watching fondly from the
windowsill.

“Your
cat tells me you that you lost someone recently,” Taliesin said
after releasing his old friend.

Sorrow
returned to Methos in a painful rush. New tears stung his eyes, and
he blinked them away firmly.

“Her
name was Alexa. “You’d have liked her.” He stared
at his shoes.

“And
the corpse candle led you to me, eh? I wonder... am I supposed to
guard you from reaching her, or guide you to find her?”

Methos
raised tear-filled eyes. “What is dead... is dead, Taliesin.
You know that. I know that. I wouldn’t presume upon your
magic. It’s far too late for that, and I never thought to
search for you while she was still alive. What I want is just to
talk to her one last time. A letter would be fine, if that would be
allowed to travel between the worlds. If not....”

If
not, those eyes told Taliesin, I’ll
continue on my way and no harm done... except to my heart.

Taliesin
squeezed Methos’ shoulder before drawing him back into a hug.
“A letter from you would not be inappropriate,” he said
gently. Of all the knights Arthur
had, you were the oldest and the most vulnerable, Taliesin thought. And the most pure,
Galahad. How else did you bring back the Grail and the Staff? Yours
was the seat of Siege Perilous at the round table. And yours was the
fate to watch the table crack, to see the knights die in battle at
Arthur’s side over nothing but a bit of land, power over the
peasantry... and Guinevere’s folly. Damn you to hell, Mordred.

But
it was all ancient history, long gone and fully out of reach. With
Taliesin stood the only knight to survive beyond the fourth century,
the only knight to win the right to follow the cannwyl
corph and find Merlyn, the once and
future magician.

He’s
the only knight so sick of our chivalry, our ‘might for right,’
and all of the trouble it caused, trying to control other people and
the entire bloody world, reflected
Taliesin, that never again will he
serve such a cause. We all had to learn there was a price for trying
to make people do what you want. It simply doesn’t work. We
worked so hard to bring peace to the world, but the nobles and the
knights never wanted it. Too boring, was peace.

He
hugged Methos harder. “Write your letter, my son.” It
doesn’t seem to matter that he’s forever older than me:
he still feels like a son. “I’ll
make certain that your Alexa receives it. And now, when’s the
last time you had a proper meal?”

* * *

It
took Methos almost a full day to frame the letter... hours to wander
the woods and plan his words, hours to remember his beloved properly,
so that she stood solidly before him in his mind as he penned the
words. Hours to get it just right on the parchment, and another few
hours to decide if it truly said all that he needed to say.

“Would
you like me to read it before it’s sent?” Taliesin
offered, stalking to the edge of the bridge and glowering at Methos
where he stood, disturbing the fretful trout the magician had hoped
to lure for their dinner. There was no hope for that: Methos’
thumpings and bumpings as he kicked the sturdy little supports had
quite frightened away not only the fish, but any hapless rabbits
Taliesin might have hoped to entice out of their hiding places.

Bread
and wine tonight, he mourned. Not
even an old moldy cheese left about. I wasn’t expecting
company. And Eclipse is no use at all. He glanced at the cat where she lay, sunning herself on the
doorstep.

“No,
I don’t want you to read it.” Methos glowered at him,
tapped the rolled-up parchment on the bridge railing. “It’s
private, if you don’t mind.”

“All
right, so which is it: to send or not to send?”

“I’m
sending it.”

“Fantastic
news. Eclipse--Ho!”

At
the mage’s order, the cat sprinted with all speed across the
green, leaped up and batted the letter from her master’s grasp.

“No!”
shouted Methos as the parchment tumbled toward the edge of the
bridge--and the water. Snatching the end of the ribbon tied around
the letter, Eclipse saved it--barely--only to gallop off into the
underbrush.

“Come
back here!” he bellowed after the cat, and made to streak off
of the bridge as though he’d go crashing after her.

“It
knows where it’s going, as well. Now, come with me. We have
much discussing to do. You’ve hardly said three sentences to
me the whole time you’ve been here. Tell me what the world has
been about since I’ve been gone.” Plucking Methos by the
beltstraps, Taliesin led him backwards toward the cottage.

“Will
Alexa get my letter, do you think?” Methos asked plaintively.

“Of
course she’ll get it. As far as Eclipse is concerned, your
lady love is just over the next hill. The cat will find her, never
fear. I taught that cat well.” Halting abruptly at the
threshold to the cottage, Taliesin glowered at Methos. “Or do
you doubt my teaching abilities?”

“Oh,
no. No.” He summoned a weak grin, realizing from the
expression on Taliesin’s face that he had better come up with
the right answer, or risk being turned into a salamander or some
other such animalisty lesson. “I have faith in you. You’re
a most excellent teacher. Just look how I’ve turned out. And
I’ve never had a moment’s trouble with Eclipse.” Except that you taught her to think
for herself, like a human all those centuries ago. And a woman at
that. “I have every faith in
both of you.”

“Very
good,” came the sepulchral comment and warning, all in one.
“Now, Galahad, join me in a game of chess. And tell me all
about fisherman’s sweaters and this Levi person who puts his
name on the bottoms of other people’s clothing.”

Snatching
a bit of dried meat from where it hung overhead, just inside the
cottage door, Taliesin thrust a piece into Methos’ hand and
yanked him inside.

Trapped
again, he thought. Taliesin’s
dried deer takes hours to gnaw, and his chess games take days.
Heaven knows when Eclipse will be back.

* * *

Eclipse’s
whiskers twitched where she sat across the garden, at the base of a
birdbath that definitely had birds in it. As always, sparrow-scent
threatened to distract her.

One
doesn’t kill birds in paradise, she reminded herself. If I did that,
I’d probably get stuck here forever. Like Persephone after she
ate her unfortunate pomegranates.

Dropping
the ribbon in her mouth, the cat chewed for a few minutes to get the
grit out from between her teeth. It had been a long journey, and
she’d had to take several rest stops. So had Methos’
letter. In the dirt.

Alexa
was just over the next hill, she
thought to herself. That’s all
the further it is to Taliesin. Unfortunately, his hill is my
mountain. Oh, my aching paws. Cheron, as always, was a misery to
deal with. I had to give him one of my nine lives to get here. What
that skeletal monk wants with a cat’s life, I’ll never
know. Oh, well... I’ll just have to ask Bast to give it back
to me. She outranks Cheron, anyway.

Smiling
at the thought of her panther-goddess stalking--with claws unsheathed
and lips curled back--the nasty guardian of the River Styx, Eclipse
retrieved Methos’ letter and trotted forward once more.

Just
a few feet more, she told herself. Down the garden path, past the holly
maze, and over to the swing. Alexa’s right there; I can feel
her. I just hope that she appreciates this. I’m not going to
have any paw-pads left when I get back to Methos! One more thing to
complain to Bast about....

There
she is.

And
there Alexa was--seated on a swing beneath a rose bower, wearing
traditional Greek white robes, dragging her sandaled feet through the
grass and not looking at all happy with her afterlife. Even as the
cat approached, the woman sniffled.

Don’t
tell me--she cries as much as HE does over her dying. Why must they
always weep?

“Mrrrrow?”
Eclipse asked, dropping the letter as she came up alongside Alexa.
Winding about the woman’s feet, the cat couldn’t help but
draw attention to herself.

Glancing
down, Alexa lifted the cat into her lap and buried her nose in the
black fir. “Oh, Eclipse, I miss him so much.”

Alexa’s
tears flowed faster. “It is you! It is. What’s happened?
Has Adam died, too?” Pushing out of the swing, with the cat
still in her arms, Alexa whirled around, her gaze searching the
garden for a glimpse of Adam.

Squirming
madly, Eclipse launched herself out of the enthusiastic embrace.
Landing awkwardly at the woman’s feet, the cat yowled
plaintively and batted the letter into Alexa’s toes.

“He’s
not here,” Alexa said plaintively.

Of
course not, you twit! The cat
yowled louder. Alexa has gone
witless with all her sniffling. Add laryngitis and long-suffering to
my list of grievances, oh, great cat goddess!

Finally, finally, just as Eclipse was about to bite Alexa smartly on the toes, the
woman looked down. Standing on Alexa’s foot, the cat licked
her calf.

“Miiooooooowww!”
Whacking the letter for the sixth time, Eclipse sent it rolling
across the lawn.

Alexa
went after it.

Good
human. Fine human. Get the toy.

Retrieving
the rolled parchment, Alexa turned it between her fingers and looked
back at Eclipse. “Did Adam send this to me?”

“Mrrow.”
Trotting back into the shade of the rose bower, Eclipse began
washing her mussed-up fir.

The
dirty, soggy ribbon was untied. The parchment was unscrolled. Alexa
joined Eclipse in the shade.

My dearest
Alexa,

Words
are all I have to reach out and tell you that I love you, miss you,
and wish that I could be there with you, holding you, and telling you
how I feel. Pen and paper are so damned empty, but they are all I
have... and with them we must both be satisfied, I suppose.

I’m
writing to try saying some of the things that there just wasn’t
time to say. I’ll think of a million other things to tell you
once this letter’s been entrusted to whatever messenger
Taliesin deems fit, but I doubt he’ll let me keep writing
you....

Alexa
looked up. “Taliesin? As in Merlyn-of-Camelot, Taliesin?”

“MrrrOWW!”
This time Eclipse gave in to her irritation and bit Alexa on the
ankle. Hush up. Keep reading.

“That
was rude.” Alexa glared briefly, but she did cease asking
foolish questions.

...Are you
all right now, dear one? Have you left the pain behind, and do you
have some hope of some happiness, a few adventures? I want to touch
you once again, and remember you not in agony, dying in my arms, but
to know that you’re all right now, that the pain has ended.
That you are happy, or at least contented.

There
was so much I wanted to give you, so much I wanted to show you before
we were parted--and there is so much you gave to me. Through your
small hands, I found acceptance and wonder, romance and love such as
I haven’t known in more than five hundred years. Butterflies
became magical, sunrises were full of promise. Our time together was
far too short, but eternity awaited and then claimed you, and there
was nothing I could do. By now you must know that life goes on,
that one day I will join you. One day, we will be together again,
and I will show you all of the things I could not. Time will be our
friend, then.

“Five
hundred years?” Alexa
screeched. Who is he?”
she demanded of the cat lying beside her. “And what is he, that he could get this to me?” She rattled the
parchment.

Eclipse’s
eyes held Alexa. You asked. I will
tell. Using the magic she had
learned in the temples of Alexandria, Egypt, the cat purred at the
woman and drew her spirit closer. Unbidden, images entered Alexa’s
mind. Understanding came with them....

Methos
was a Roman general when Caesar ordered the Egyptian fleet burned in
Alexandria’s harbor. Buildings near the harbor also caught
fire--including our great library and the Temple of Bast, of which I
was a servant. Entering the temple in search of parchment and
papyrus to save, he hid and protected me in his tunic while flames
claimed 700,000 books and hundreds of lives. The screams of the
dying roiled around us, while the old gods were replaced by the
new...

Alexa
saw the Egyptian temple with its murals stained with blood, the slain
priests and priestesses lying dead beside statues of Anubis and Bast.
The man Alexa knew as Adam Pierson came out of the smoke, and
Eclipse hissed even as she tried to conceal herself at the feet of
her goddess. Gentle hands reached for her, but she scratched them.
Smelling of sweat and blood, those hands reached for her again,
closed about her trembling body and lifted her high.

In
shivering terror, she was carried from the temple. For the first
time, she saw the city outside her home. Soldiers bore down on the
people she had served. Blood stained the sand. Fire burned. She
hardly had time to take in the sight before she found herself on a
black stallion. Burrowing beneath the folds of clothing, she dug in
her claws and yowled while the man used shield and sword to cut a
swath of survival for them both.

The
memories of men screaming and smoke billowing gave way to the image
of Adam’s face and lithe form... intent on a Zenlike exercise
that he was performing using a broadsword.

He is
Immortal, Eclipse’s voice rang inside Alexa’s head, with sword and blood and beheadings, and he cannot die, unless
another Immortal takes his head, and with it his immortality.

Alexa
was shown an always revolving montage of Adam facing challenge after
challenge... first as the Roman whom Eclipse had known... then as a
Phoenician spice trader, an Elizabethan charged with witchcraft, a
Canadian fur trader, and a farrier tending Thoroughbreds at some
Irish racetrack.

Swords
rang, heads fell, Quickenings pierced the night. Alexa watched it
all, receiving instant understanding through the magic Eclipse
brought. The last image was that of the man she had met: sweet and
shy and eternally bookish... Adam Pierson, the independently wealthy
graduate student visiting friends in Seacouver, who was obsessed
enough to take his cat with him wherever he went.

His
name is not Adam, Eclipse said as
Alexa struggled to absorb everything she was learning. He
is Methos. Mine to love, mine to protect, mine to guard and to
serve.

“Are
you Immortal as well?” whispered Alexa.

Through
the Roman’s saving me, he earned Bast’s protection and me
as companion. I serve the goddess and am eclipsed by time, caught
between dark death and bright life. Companion, I am, and companion I
will always be, until my life ends with his.

Alexa’s
mind struggled to expand around Methos’ vast age. “So
he’s an Immortal from ancient Rome? He’s as old as the
pyramids?”

Eclipse
narrowed her eyes. That was who he
was in one life. He is older than the pyramids.

“Older?
What’s older than Rome and Egypt? Sumaria?”

Older.
He has seen 5,000 years.

The
cat’s yellow eyes released her. For a long time, Alexa just
sat and stared at the writing in her hands. 5,000
years? And I’m sitting here, dead, and staring at a letter
that was written by a 5,000-year-old Immortal, brought to me from the
world of the living by a talking cat who was born thousands of years
ago in ancient Egypt? And they say miracles never happen. “How
many lifetimes has he had, Eclipse?”

One.
Years upon years, stretching into forever with the same body, the
same face, the same soul.

“That’s
impossible! No one lives forever.”

Methos lives. He does not, cannot die.

Alexa
considered the message, and the messenger. “You’re
serious, aren’t you? You’re telling the truth.”

Alexa
remembered oblique comments Adam had made, opinions he had voiced
that hadn’t sounded like opinions but absolute knowledge
regarding ancient mysteries. He gave
me all of the puzzle pieces, Alexa
realized, but Eclipse is here helping
me put them all together. Oh, wow... I’m in love with an older
man. Adam Pierson’s vast
knowledge of history and ancient lands all came together into one
unbelievable, fantastic truth.

In
reverence, she stroked the cat’s back. “How terribly
lonely it must be for him. I’m glad that he has you. You must
be the only constant in his life.”

...All
stories end, but I promise you that ours is not over yet. We will be
together again, if you wish it. Please wish it? If there is any way
to reach you again, know that I will.

I will
always love you, sweet Alexa. My thoughts will always be with you.

Forever,
Adam

She burst
into tears. Again.

Chapter
Three

“Goodbye...
My memory of the future is gone.I know no more the sorrows and joys
before you.
I can only wish for you in ignorance, like everyone
else.
Reign long and reign happily. Oh, and Wart!
Remember to think!”

--Merlin, from Camelot,
by Alan Jay Lerner

Eclipse
plunked the letter down at Methos’ feet and glowered up at him. Never again will I carry missives
with ribbons, she proclaimed,
huffing off into a corner to nurse her mangled mouth and paws.

“Thank
you, Eclipse,” Methos offered humbly. “Taliesin, do you
have something to help her?”

“I
have venison and a gentle healing poultice for her feet, and many
hugs and many strokes for her sybaritic soul. Will that serve you,
sweet servant of the Goddess?”

Even
from across the room, Methos could hear the cat purring her approval
as Taliesin went to tend her. Who
else in the history of the world has had Arthur’s own mage
tending her rather petty complaints? Methos shook his head. I’m
sure Eclipse believes she deserves such fussing.

Turning
his attention to the letter at his feet, he realized that he’d
never considered the possibility that Alexa might write back. Taking
a deep breath, he retrieved the missive, untied the ribbon, and took
a deep breath before beginning to read.

Dearest
Methos--

Eclipse
has told me that is your real name, and I think it suits you far more
than ‘Adam Pierson.’ I know what you are now, and wish I
had known then. I would have liked to have known about the miracle
in my life. I would liked to have asked you all sorts of irreverent,
nosy things--like what was Egypt and Rome really like? how did you
come to know a certain magician? and what was Guinevere like? Was
she prettier than me?

Eclipse
is silent on points regarding Camelot, though she has said she shared
that time with you, as well. I suppose that my learning will have to
wait until I see you again. One more thing to look forward to, my
love.

Except
for the agony of missing you, the pain is indeed gone, and I am
slowly learning to smile again. It’s a difficult task, for I
miss having you near. I miss the sound of your voice and your touch
most of all. You spoiled me in those last months and made me realize
what I had been missing by cutting myself off from everyone. If I
had only known then what I know now... but it wouldn’t have
done any good. You rescued me the moment you stepped into Joe’s.
Until that moment, I lay dormant, like the cocooned caterpillars you
pointed out to me in the lavender. Even if I had things to live
over, nothing would change until the butterfly moment I met you. To
everything there is a season, and our winter was meant to be.

Guardians
here in the afterlife have said there are astral libraries here full
of universal knowledge that I know, without doubt, Adam Pierson would
drool over. Alas, I’m here and you’re not! But perhaps
that’s a distinct advantage, for I’ve been told that I
have only to concentrate on some part of our earth’s history
and voila! I will be shown what really happened. If I concentrate
on someone named Methos, do you think I’ll be shown 5,000 years
of your life? With the library show me your current life and let me
be with you that way? It’s worth a try. Until your letter, I
haven’t wanted to try anything at all.

All
by itself, the afterlife isn’t very magical. But now that
we’ve exchanged letters and I’ve gotten to talk with your
cat, I know that miracles are not only possible--they are the norm
over here. I don’t know if you intended for me to find about
all of this magic, but I have. I’m going to pursue it, if only
to have something to do until you come.

Thank
you for showing me where more adventures lie. I want to wish you
love and all happiness, and tell you not to lose your head too soon
because I would never wish you ill. On the other hand, the longer
you live, the longer we’re apart. If you were no longer
Immortal, we would be together. And so, rather than risk sounding
selfish and tell you that I hope to see you soon, I’ll wish you
all peace and love and dreams come true, instead.

I
will never forget you, my sweet man. I will always be here, waiting
for you. I know now that we’ll meet again, and after your
letter I can bear waiting for you on this side. Oh, please, remember
me. Don’t forget. Please think of me.

All
my love,Alexa

“Does
it smell like her?” Taliesin asked eagerly from across the
room.

Methos
looked up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Smell.
Scent. Perfume. Does it smell like her? Eclipse says it does.”

He
sniffed. “Actually, yes. It does smell like her.”
Inexplicably, tears filled his eyes. This
is what I needed, he realized. Just
to know that she was real, and that she’s safe. Just to have
part of her with me, one last time.

Leaving
the cat, Taliesin crossed to Methos. Muttering some words in a
language Methos didn’t immediately recognize, the mage made
mysterious passes over the paper. “There now. That’s
done. Now it will always smell like her.”

You
will always have that much of her with you, my son, Taliesin thought. That much, at
least, I can do for you.

“Thank
you,” said Methos, simply. Not trusting himself to say more,
he simply sat, reading and rereading the letter as though he would
memorize every word.

He
probably already has, thought
Taliesin. After a few minutes, he asked, “Your quest is
completed, I suppose. Will you be leaving soon, then?”

“Hmm?”
Methos looked startled, as though he’d forgotten that he wasn’t
alone. “Are you so eager to get rid of a certain cat and her
knight, then?”

“Not
particularly. But I remember you as the sort of knight who finishes
things and then runs off to whatever task awaits him next.”

“No
task.” Folding his letter, Methos slipped it into his wallet,
which was then slid securely into his back pocket. “At least,
no pressing task. For someone who has all the time in the world,
what task could possibly be pressing?”

“Well
then, stay awhile,” the mage invited. “I’ve missed
talking to you, even while you’ve been here. Now that all
distractions have been laid to rest and the grieving has eased a
little, perhaps you can pay some attention to this old man, hmm?”

“Old
man?” Crossing his arms, Methos rocked back in the chair and
grinned at Taliesin. “You were never old. Beyond petting and
pampering my cat, what did you have in mind for us to do?”

“I’ll
tune the harp and play some music.”

Methos’
eyes lit with a greedy fire at that suggestion, and Taliesin’s
eyes twinkled back at him. I haven’t
forgotten how you begged me to play, all those centuries ago.

“The
Matter of Britain may long have claimed my magical abilities, leaving
little room for bardic efforts,” the mage said, “but well
it is that I remember the odd song or two.”

“Or
three or four or?...” Methos said hopefully. “As long as
you’ll play, Taliesin, I’ll stay.”

* * *

The
bard played and they both sang the night through, until Methos was
nodding in his cups and Taliesin’s voice had grown hoarse. The
next morning saw all three of them wake with a ravenous hunger--and
Taliesin determined to see if the Immortal could still catch fish for
breakfast.

“How
much do you remember of what I taught you?”

“What
you taught me?” Methos chuckled. “I seem to remember a
young, starving bard who begged me to give him a fish for dinner in
exchange for an old Celtic melody. He wanted food first and the song
second, because he was so weak that he couldn’t stand.”

Lying
flat-bellied on opposite sides of the stream, the two Immortals
wiggled their hands in the water and waited for the odd, unsuspecting
trout.

Methos
went first, sidling his palm beneath the belly of a beautiful rainbow
specimen--and promptly missing when his hand exploded out of the
water and the fish darted downstream, to safer shadows.

“Dammit!
That’s the third one this morning.” Rolling over, onto
his stomach, Methos squinted at the clouds through sun-dappled
branches. “The lectures from my stomach are becoming
unbearable.”

“Er,
Methos... About that young bard who offered to sing for his
supper?...”

Sighing,
the Immortal closed his eyes and tapped his fingers on his ribs.
“What do you want me to sing?”

“Not
a thing. I’d like an apology, if you please.”

“All
right. Fine.” He cleared his throat and prepared to issue the
official proclamation. “I’m sorry, Taliesin, that I made
you sing for your supper in 650 A.D. Can you catch me some
breakfast, now?”

“Most
certainly.” And he did. Upstream, where the melancholy trout
hadn’t been warned of their coming.

*

“Do
you ever think of staying here?” asked Taliesin, as they picked
fish bones from their teeth.

Methos
shook his head. “Do you ever think of leaving here? Of
getting back into the Game?”

The
mage threw another log onto the fire and studied the sparks as they
rose through the smoke. “The world is a different place now,
Galahad. No place for magicians.”

“The
world has changed more than you know. The Old Ways and the old
languages are coming back. Gaelic, anyway.”

“And
could I understand it?”

Methos
threw a string of modern Welsh at him.

The
magician frowned and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I believe
you just asked me where a fellow could go to relieve himself?”

“You
can understand it.”

“But
to live in a world without the Pendragon...” Taliesin shook
his head. “I miss Arthur. My time is over, Galahad.”

“Some
would say the same of me,” Methos challenged, “and I’ve
been around longer than you have.”

The
mage snorted. “You were always young at heart. It’s how
you’ve survived all this time. And kept your sanity.”

“No,
Taliesin. I survived by treating everyone and everything like peach
fuzz.”

“Peach...
fuzz....” Up went the black eyebrow again, making the mage
look positively evil.

“Most
everything in the world is peach fuzz,” Methos explained, lying
on his side and plucking a blade of sweet grass to suck on. “It’s
all surface, hasn’t a thing to do with the rich, sweet fruit of
life. You have to ignore the fuzz and bite beyond--bite hard--to get
to what matters. Calling most of life peach fuzz helps me remember
what matters, and what doesn’t.”

“Another
kind of magic.” Taliesin pondered the fire a moment. “So
most everything is peach fuzz, is it? Was Alexa? Was Arthur?”

“You
know they weren’t.”

“So
why do I see you wincing every time I call you Galahad? It was your
name, you know? You were a knight of the table round. Made so by
Arthur himself.”

“Methos
is my name. Has been for a very long time.”

“Is
that why you don’t like me calling you Galahad?” Taliesin
pressed. “Does it remind you of that knight you’re
trying so hard to forget?”

“It
reminds me of a bloody field in Cornwall, and of watching a great
many friends die. You weren’t there. I was.”

“I
was there. In spirit. Beyond sight, beyond--”

“Beyond
helping!” Methos spat, amazed at the ferocity of his bitterness
after all these centuries. “I watched chivalry die that day,
Taliesin. You didn’t. I saw Arthur weep as he fought, I
watched his heart crack along with that blessed table and our King’s
head. I saw him lose everything to that bastard son of his.”

“Mordred
wasn’t his son,” Taliesin challenged quietly. “How
could Mordred be Arthur’s son, when Arthur was destined to be
an Immortal, like us?”

That
stopped Methos. Stopped him cold.

“You
felt the pre-Immortal vibration of our king whenever he was around,”
insisted Taliesin. “You had to.”

“I
felt it,” Methos acknowledged. “But he never returned
from Avalon, and so I felt that the legends of him surviving the
battle were only that--legends. I thought that Mordred’s--or
some other enemy--must have taken his head for him never to have
entered the Game.”

“The
once and future king lives still,” said Taliesin. “That
is more than legend. And you are wrong, Methos. I was there,
watching, on the edge of the battlefield. And I was helpless to stop
events Arthur had, years before, put into motion. I saw you fall
with Lionel, but knew you would rise again. When you still lay dead
when the tide of battle was over, I knew that too many had seen you
lying there, lifeless. Everyone knew Galahad was dead. Once you had
revived, you would have to leave Caerleon and begin a new life
elsewhere. And so, I assumed Sir Bedevere’s shap.”

“You
did what?”

“I
shape-changed and gathered the remaining knights to retrieve our king
where he lay dying of Mordred’s death blow to his head. At
Arthur’s urging, I hurled Excalibur into the Lake, and summoned
the Lady who retrieved the sword and took Arthur to the Blessed Isle.
But surely you know the stories? How can you live in your world,
and not know the stories? They’ve been told countless times.
Mallory, Tennyson, T.H. White, Bradley, Roberson--”

“Where
is Arthur now?”

“Where
he has been the past fourteen centuries. In Avalon.”

Avalon.
Beneath Glastonbury Tor, just as the legends say, Methos
realized. Buried alive in a Faerie
cairn beneath the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey. And, in this modern
age, no one would ever think to actually look for him there.

Methos
made to rise from the table, thinking to gather Eclipse and his
thoughts, and make straight for the Tor on his next quest. Cairns
can be opened. Immortal kings can be retrieved. “Perhaps it is time for your once and future king to return.”

A
strong, wiry hand on his wrist stopped him.

“No,
Methos.” Taliesin’s dark eyes brooded into his. “Arthur
has fought his battles and is living where he belongs. He knows
about the world above, and about the Game. He is well contented to
stay in Avalon, and we should leave him there.”

“Then
why tell me all of this? Why tell me where he is if I’m not
supposed to bring him back?”

Taliesin’s
smile was wry. “I was hoping to reassure a melancholy, cynical
knight born before the age of chivalry that chivalry is not dead. Oh, you may wish it was, and you may behave as though you
refuse to acknowledge that Arthur’s code can still apply in
your new and most modern, Levi-clad world. But deep down, Methos,
you still belong to Arthur and to his dream: ‘violence is not
strength and compassion is not weakness’: might for right,
rather than might is right. You remember the promise you made--to
fight for the weak, to guard their honor and their lives.”

“‘We
are civilized,’” Methos recalled the lectures he and all
the knights had heard from Arthur. “I remember!” he
spat. “And I remember your black scrying mirror and crystal
ball. You’ve been watching me, even today, haven’t you?
Spying on my private conversations, on my life? Have you forgotten mankind’s treachery, Taliesin? I haven’t.
I’ve seen far more perfidy than the Matter of Britain
commanded. So spake King Arthur: ‘We are civilized.’ I
have lived much longer than that young and very earnest man who even
now lives protected and secluded at Avalon, and I’ve seen life
as it is.

“I’ve
known centuries of inhumanity and betrayal,” Methos continued,
as though once he’d begun explaining himself, he could not
stop. “I’ve seen mankind destroy its own kind, murdering
not only its children but their promise and this planet--this fragile
blue ball of earth and water that gave them life and continues trying
to nurture them. Not only humans have suffered: species upon
species has died or waits in the wings, nearly dead because of man’s
selfishness. There is no longer room on this earth for the manatee,
the macaw, the dusky seaside sparrow, for the white tiger. In
another century, even the dolphins and the sharks may be gone. In an
agony of helplessness, I’ve watched the betrayal and slow death
of all I hold holy and good, until I want no part of the
heartbreaking, lying thing you call chivalry!”

“Neither
do I,” Taliesin said calmly. “Why do you think I locked
myself away in that Cornwall cave? Oh, I know the stories well
enough: the sweet young fairy, Nimue, lured me into the woods, and,
because she was so beautiful, I taught her everything I knew of
magic. Once the student had graduated, she locked me away in a
castle on the clouds, or in an emerald cave--choose whichever legend
you wish to believe.” He scowled at Methos. “I, share
all of my magic? Bah! Never happen. I locked myself away, thank you very much. Couldn’t
stand the mess of things Arthur was making with that idiot little
wife of his, not to mention that idiot so-called son of his. As
though Arthur was the only lover Morgause had ever taken when Lot was
away.” He snorted derisively. “You just try telling
Arthur that, though. I disappeared myself to let matters take their
natural course.”

Methos
stared at him, incredulous. “Are you telling me that you knew
what would happen with Guinevere, Lancelot and Mordred, and decided
to... absent yourself?”

Taliesin
nodded. “I told Arthur, warned him not to marry his pretty Guinevere. But would he listen? No.
And so I left. T’was far better than standing about and
watching everybody destroy themselves. When you live long
enough--and I’m certain I don’t have to tell you this--when you’ve lived long enough, Methos, you realize just
how little control you have over other people. Their folly may be
completely clear to you, while they traipse blithely onward, straight
toward the edge of the cliff. Oh, you can point out the cliff, draw
them magical pictures in the air and prophesy all you want. King or
commoner, they listen politely, nod solemnly, and then go out and do
whatever they bloody blazes they want--which usually leads them to
falling--plop!--straight over the cliff and onto the rocks.
Whereupon they scream and howl for you--the resident magician--to
summon the powers and make everything all right.”

Methos
shook his head. “Hard to watch, isn’t it?”

“Oh,
I stopped watching a long time ago. But now... Now I think that it
might just be time for me to pop my head outside my cave for another
look ‘round. What do you think?”

“Are
you asking if I think you should leave this place and go back to the
world of the living with me? You want to rejoin the Game?”

“Exactly
so.” With a grin, Taliesin clapped Methos on the shoulder.
“You know all about the world out there. I couldn’t ask
for a better teacher. Do people still enjoy the odd harpsong or
two?”

“In
certain circles, yes,” Methos ventured slowly.

“And
can you get me a set pair of those... Levi leggings?”

“Umm...
of course.” He eyed the grey wool robes of the bard. Actually, if I take him to King
Richard’s Faire in Maryland, he might get further by wearing
what he’s got on. “You’ve
absolutely no idea what you’re asking, much less the challenges
you’ll face, do you?”

“Absolutely
none!” Taliesin bellowed. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Exciting,”
Methos echoed, realizing that he was about to be distracted, for a
very long time, from his sorrows over losing Alexa. I’m
supposed to take Merlyn the Magician into the twentieth century, with
no more education regarding the modern world than a short lecture on
the Irish cottage industry’s manufacturing of fisherman’s
sweaters and how wise Mr. Levi was to see the possibilities in using
extra covered-wagon canvas to fashion work clothes that have become
extremely popular over the last hundred years.

Methos’
mind boggled at the enormity of the task ahead of him: Educate
one sixth century magician in the workings of the modern age.
Introduce him to Walt Disney’s The
Sword in the Stone, to vending
machines, katanas and nuclear war, space travel, Star Trek, and
Queen. Methos felt like banging his
head against a rock. I took the long
road through time, and some of this world still doesn’t make
sense to me. And I’m supposed to explain it to him? How am I
letting him talk me into this? I can’t possibly do this alone.

Duncan! he thought. I’ll get Duncan to
help. He’s a fellow Celt, yes? He’ll know what to do
with Taliesin, yes? And he likes chivalry. He hasn’t become disenchanted with it the way we
have. He and Taliesin will get on famously. Duncan’s even got
some nifty hair ties to share with the mage.

With
harp and satchel slung over his shoulder, Taliesin led the way from
the forest that had been his home for the past sixteen hundred years.
Eclipse trotted quietly at Methos’ side, and another--or
perhaps the same--cannwyl corph kept
them company. It bobbed and hovered on the other side of the trees,
as though bidding the magician and his companion a loving farewell.
The blue light faltered where the ancient earth ended, and Taliesin
paused on the threshold as well, setting down the harp for a moment.

“Once
you leave,” Methos asked, “can you come back?”

“No
one can go backward,” the mage said, turning in place in the
moonlight and surveying the land as though knowing he would never see
it like this again. “All of us, we can only go forward. You
know that.”

The
magician’s eyes glinted in the moonlight, centuries of emotion
pooled there. There would be no more spying on Arthur in Avalon, no
more letters sent to Alexa. Once Taliesin left Wales, the magic
would fade and this particular door between the worlds would be
closed forever.

“Thank
you,” said Methos, knowing Taliesin had somehow lured him to he
had been lured to Nany-Y-Moch for the specific purpose of healing his
own soul and rescuing Taliesin from his boredom.

“Think
nothing of it. Shall we go?”

Methos
took the harp while Taliesin gathered his satchel--all that he had in
the world. Within the burlap cloth lay a few books scribbled in
ancient Gaelic--songs and stories, all. The only magic carried from
Nany-Y-Moch tonight would be stored in Taliesin’s head. His
time for needing magic books had long passed.

They
left the forest for the grassy plain, and the wind came from the
trees to sing to them once more. Methos’ eyes filled with
tears as Taliesin began singing, too, as they climbed the hill toward
the waiting car and a new, strange century.

Wherein
the deep night sky, the stars lie in its embrace/ The courtyard still
in its sleep, and peace comes over your face./ ‘Come to me,’
it sings. ‘Hear the pulse of the land./ The ocean’s
rhythms pull to hold your heart in its hand.’/ And when the
wind draws strong across the cypress trees,/ The night birds cease
their songs, so gathers memories.

Once
reaching the car, the Immortals turned together to survey the ancient
forest shimmering behind them. The wind teased with less intensity,
almost mournfully.

Farewell! sang the whispers, in chorus with Taliesin’s parting song. Last
night, you spoke of a dream where forests stretched to the east,/ And
each bird sang its song; A unicorn joined in the feast./ And in the
corner stood a pomegranate tree with wild flowers there, no mortal
eye could see./ Yet
still some mystery befalls, sure as the cock crows at morn/ The world
in stillness keeps the secret of babes to be born.

And
that’s what we all are... thought
Methos, listening and oblivious to the tears tracing down his cheeks. Babes a’borning to a new day,
a new age... a new immortality. Oh, Taliesin... it will be a joy,
teaching you about the 20th century.

Even
as Methos and Taliesin watched, fog rolled through the trees, the
moon was hidden behind a bank of clouds to obscure the forest view.
When the moon returned, the fog had gone and so had the woods. Only
the familiar reservoir waters lay revealed, with gentle waves lapping
at the shoreline. Where once a magical forest had lain, water alone
glimmered in the moonlight.

For
a moment, the bard’s voice faltered, only to return, strong and
confident, as the wind whipped through his hair.

I
heard an old voice say, ‘Don’t go far from the land./ The
seasons have their way no mortal can understand.’”1 Bowing slightly, Taliesin saluted the water and the moon before
turning to Methos’ car. Arching an eyebrow in inquiry, he
awaited the first lesson of his new century.

“It’s
a sort of a covered wagon,” Methos began, coming around the
boot to show Taliesin how to open the door. “But you can’t
make Levi’s out of it.”